


you will drop on all fours (get down, show me what you're good for)

by starlitfeathers



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Akira... goes through some shit, Alley Sex, Anal Sex, Belt kink, Biting, Blow Jobs, Choking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Hair-pulling, M/M, Mild P5R Spoilers, Power Bottom Akechi Goro, Rough Foreplay, Semi-Public Sex, Underage Drinking, mild bloodplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29005314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlitfeathers/pseuds/starlitfeathers
Summary: Even though Akira knows that he’s making a horrible decision, and that the Goro Akechi he knew and cared about before was just a clever front, devised merely as a tool for gaining trust... even though his hands shake and his stomach churns uncomfortably and his pulse hammers in his neck, he can’t deny the small part of him that craves utter ruination at the hands of the boy currently trapping him against a wall in a dark seedy alley in Kichijōji.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 4
Kudos: 67





	you will drop on all fours (get down, show me what you're good for)

The initial text message arrives with a quiet _ding_ as soon as Akira steps out into the cool January night air and flips the sign on the front door of the café to _closed_. 

He’s exhausted, both mentally and physically. An overly long day spent working at the coffee shop and dealing with restless customers _always_ takes a toll on him, and for the past half hour of his shift, he’s wanted nothing more than to close up, hurry back inside, and make himself comfortable in bed.

" _Hey. Are you busy? Would you like to meet up with me in Kichijōji for a bit?_ "

Akira groans, and opts to ignore it; it wouldn’t be the first request to spend time with somebody that he’s decided against today, and it certainly won’t be the last. That is, until he notices the sender.

Immediately, his cheeks begin to heat up. A weight overcomes him, first in his chest and then over his entire body, almost like a group of enemies suddenly got the drop on him, continuously piling on. Slight nausea starts to course through his gut, making even his bones ache, and his heart begins to pump so rapidly that he wouldn’t be surprised if it suddenly burst out of his chest at any moment, leaving him to be a gruesome discovery for anyone that walks by the front of the café.

While his brain seems to short-circuit for a few seconds, his shaking thumbs rapidly find their own way over the letters on the keyboard to type a response.

" _be there in a few_ ".

He opens the door again, the bell jingling loudly and bringing his attention back to the present. He hears a questioning sound from Morgana, who was sitting on the counter waiting for him to come back in. 

Morgana’s blue eyes glare daggers at him while Akira stands in place at the door, trying to subtly compose himself, taking a deep breath. He _really_ doesn’t want the cat to recognize that he is in a state of disarray. Blindly, he grabs at the coat rack for his jacket, gloves, and scarf, quickly slipping them on.

“Hey, what happened? You seemed perfectly okay a minute ago, did you get called in to work at one of your other _five jobs_ tonight?” Morgana pipes up, slightly snarky, and Akira groans.

“I’ll be back home in a little while,” he lies, solemnly. He’s finally collected himself, taken enough steadying breaths that he hopes he appears collected in Morgana's eyes. “I’m going to see Akechi.”

Morgana groans theatrically in return, jumping off of the counter, his claws clacking when they hit the wood floor.

“I’m... _not saying anything,_ ” he begins, a condescending tone in his words. He walks over and brushes past Akira’s legs. Akira looks down at him, partially apologetically, partially _annoyed_ with the fact that his _cat_ is judging his decisions in the same way a parent would.

“I’m going to spend the night at the chief’s house with Futaba. And remember, I won’t be there to save you, so try not to get yourself killed, okay?”

Morgana should definitely be used to Akira making questionable decisions by now. _Especially_ decisions involving a certain _dangerous prettyboy detective_.

Akira nods. “I’ll be fine. We aren’t going anywhere dangerous.” Morgana scoffs at the statement.

“You know full well I’m not concerned about _where_ you’re going!”

He leaves the conversation at that, strutting away silently into the back alley, towards the Sakura household. 

Akira breathes in and lets the air fill his lungs; on the exhale, he sighs, attempting to mentally shrug off the excess negative energy that Morgana just thrust at him. He really shouldn’t worry about anyone else’s opinion on what he’s doing with his time. Indignantly, he switches his focus to shutting the door behind him, fiddling with his set of keys to lock it.

With one foot after the other, he turns around and starts on jogging his way through the dimly lit back alleys around Leblanc and Yongen-Jaya to Shibuya station. He’s taken this route countless times, almost every single day since he moved to Tokyo; therefore, he doesn’t feel the need to focus on where he’s going, or what his body is doing. His feet switch to autopilot, leaving him to mull over the countless thoughts in his brain.

It’s been about a week since he’d last been alone with Akechi, since he’d last interacted with him for something other than _business_. Outside of daily strategy meetings in his dusty attic bedroom at Leblanc with all of the other Thieves, and being in the Metaverse together with the team during the ongoing infiltrations into Takuto Maruki’s palace, Akira hasn’t seen or heard much from the detective.

He somehow gets by with believing that it’s because he’s a busybody, with research and cram school and detective work on his plate on top of everything else; but really, after having seen the boy’s true colors, he’s almost certain that it’s because Akechi wouldn’t care less about whether or not Akira was even _alive_ if he wasn’t an absolutely crucial part of reversing Maruki’s fabricated reality. 

Akechi has made it abundantly clear at every opportunity that he and Akira are nothing more than colleagues, teammates working together to defeat one final foe. For the detective, the past has passed, and prior feelings _, platonic, romantic, loathsome,_ or _otherwise_ , no longer fit into the equation, _much to Akira’s chagrin._

 _But_ , he thinks, if Akechi doesn’t _care_ about him, isn’t absolutely and constantly mentally _preoccupied_ with him the way it persistently happens to be in reverse, _why would he still want to spend time with him outside of when it’s necessary?_

Thinking on it too long makes him heave again. He isn’t sure why he puts himself through things like this, why he’s dumb enough to assign meaning to motiveless situations, or why he’s still unrequitedly _lovesick_ and travelling out to spend time with the one person who will stoke the flames and douse them in cold water in the same breath.

The brisk dry night air seeps into his bones, settling there like shards of ice cutting into the marrow, and he briefly considers turning around before he gets too far, retreating before it’s too late.

Physically, it wouldn’t be much of a hassle. But by all other accounts, it is, in fact, _too late_. His misgivings fade away, for the time being. As he hastens his speed, his blood pumps and his body heats up, so much so that he begins to sweat and it doesn’t even register in Akira’s brain that he’s outside, late at night, in the middle of winter. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness of the areas surrounding him, and the distinct lack of interesting scenery, so once he finally enters the vicinity of Shibuya Station Square, the sudden bold glare of the rail station’s iridescent lights fire straight into his eyes, momentarily making his head pound even more than it already had been.

Once he collects himself, he looks around, walking inside and leisurely through the gates to the Inokashira line to Kichijōji. For a Saturday night, the station and trains themselves seem to be strangely lacking in commuters and loiterers. This doesn't bother him whatsoever; he definitely prefers not having to wade through the usual sea of massive weekend crowds to get to where he needs to be. He quickly pays the fare, and steps quietly onto the train, snatching an empty seat.

As the train begins its journey, Akira wishes he had brought a book, or homework, _anything,_ to occupy himself with during the half-hour ride, but instead, he elects to do exactly what he didn’t want to do, what he _shouldn’t do_.

He pulls his cellphone out of his pocket, and navigates to his messaging app, clicking on the most recent conversation. Without mulling it over too thoroughly, he quickly types up a courtesy message.

“ _i’m_ _on the train now. where should we meet?”_

He feels the bile begin to rise up and burn his throat as his thumb hovers over the _send_ button. Doubts and second thoughts enter his mind just as quickly as they had disappeared before. He still has the opportunity to return home, to bail and lie to Akechi that he’s _very sorry_ , he got distracted and caught up in doing something and wasn’t able to make it to the train in enough time, that he _will_ make it up to him, they can meet at another date, maybe tomorrow night, maybe next Saturday. 

It’s not like Akira hadn’t always, from the beginning of their _acquaintanceship_ , relinquished absolutely everything he was doing in order to spend even a measly five minutes with the detective, after all. The sheer juxtaposition between that sentiment and the internal struggle he’s currently suffering through about seeing Akechi tonight disgusts him.

The train slows down and announces that it’s arrived at the Meidaimae stop, marking that it’s been ten minutes since Akira got on. He watches keenly as a few people step off; he could simply stand up and walk off here as well, and then catch the next train back to the station in a few minutes.

However, Akira has definitely made more than enough choices lately driven by wholly selfish intentions. There are two final deciding factors for this commitment; first, that tonight, it’s Akechi who’s asking to see _him, not the typical other way around._

Second, he absolutely _lives_ for constant self-sabotage.

He lurches forward ever so slightly as the vehicle begins to move again, and his phone makes a quiet noise confirming that the message went through. He closes his eyes for a moment while waiting for a response. 

The train car rattles as it speeds up, and again slows down, stopping periodically to let other passengers off at their destinations. Akira’s eyes blink open the instant he hears his phone _ding_ with a message notification.

“ _How about in front of the jazz club? We can stop in for a bit, I heard they have a delightful live singer tonight as a special Saturday guest._ ”

Akira outwardly scoffs at how polite he’s being, although from their prior _dates_ , it seems like Akechi does genuinely enjoy spending time at the jazz club with him, even now. He wonders if by some miracle, he’s going to have a calm, subdued experience with the detective tonight, but he _knows_ he could never be that lucky. Even though he dropped his sweet innocent celebrity facade in person, Akira notices that at times his text messages slip back into that fake personality’s territory. He waits a few moments before he replies _“sounds good to me”_ and _clicks_ his phone screen off, sliding the device into his jacket pocket.

Almost as if on cue, the train comes to a grinding halt. A message blares over the speakers notifying the few passengers that they have in fact arrived in Kichijōji, and the doors open up into the night, waiting for the evacuation. Akira slowly stands up, breath whistling through his nose. The nausea hits again in a sudden wave, tendrils of it sprouting in his stomach and crawling up his body, settling in his throat.

His legs seem to carry him by no will of his own, and the next thing he’s aware of is his feet hitting the concrete outside of the station. He mindlessly drifts into the neighborhood. It feels as if he’s stepped out of a silent, subdued black-and-white film into a full color, surround sound, CGI-filled blockbuster movie - it’s an immediate attack on every single one of his senses, and it’s in stark contrast with the lack of crowds in Yongen-Jaya and around Shibuya. Everything is exceedingly loud and lively, bright lights flashing and laughter filling the air. 

Judging by how boisterous the area is, and how many queues and gatherings he sees around different shops, bars, and restaurants, he figures that this must be tonight’s go-to spot for _every single person_ that lives nearby. Of _course_ Akechi would want to meet him here; the detective seems to revel in causing him distress.

He takes a left turn and slinks down an equally busy narrow backstreet, past outdoor seating at bars and eateries full of lushes and people loitering in front of a variety of small shops. Even though this was meant to be a shortcut, the area is so congested that he has to physically push himself past individuals who are in the way. Decorative multicolored lanterns and lights swing and sway in the cold breeze, and Akira decides to zip up his jacket, tucking his scarf in and rubbing his gloved hands together.

The scents of different types of cuisine linger and mix in the air, and once the fragrant promise of a delicious meal reaches Akira’s nose, his stomach begins to churn and rumble. He had eaten a plate of leftover lukewarm curry for dinner a few hours prior, but after the sudden bout of stress and anxiety he had managed to experience, a deep pit of hunger appeared in his stomach; he hopes that Akechi will at least be amenable to this and want to stay at the jazz club long enough to enjoy a meal.

He turns the corner back out onto a main street, and allows his eyes to adjust to the dimmer lights, then gazing forward a little farther to see the subtle, indistinct brick building that is Jazz Jin.

His heart catches in his throat when he sees the taller, brown-haired boy standing outside the front door, one hand scrolling on his cell phone and the other tucked into the right pocket of his tan jacket. He swallows it back down and takes one last deep breath before he continues on, slowly approaching. His eyes are focused intently on his shoes and on the ground in front of him, mapping out every detail of his upcoming footpath. He can’t bear to look up at the detective, not yet.

“Ah. So you finally made it,” he hears Akechi mumble when he finally gets close enough, disinterest dripping into the statement. His eyes automatically glance up towards the speaker, mouth curling into an awkward smile.

Akechi is grimacing. The line of string lights dangling off of the club’s exterior, as well as the glowing, yet nuanced, signage of the establishment, visually complement him well, making his hair, face, and clothing radiate and seem almost _heavenly_ in the dark night. His maroon eyes flicker and gaze into Akira’s grey ones, staring him down as he waits for a response.

Akira forgets how to speak as he counts the visible faint freckles like a mini galaxy spattered over the bridge of Akechi’s nose and on his cheeks. It’s such a minute detail to absolutely lose himself over, but it has been a long while since he’s seen the detective like _this_ , completely natural, not caked in foundation and concealer to look consummate for the public and hide that which he was taught to consider _imperfections_. 

“ _Hellooo,”_ Akechi drones, dragging on the last syllable, slightly annoyed. “ _Wake. Up_.” He snaps his fingers for emphasis. “Let’s go inside.” 

He mentally shakes himself out of it. “Oh. Sorry,” he laughs nervously.

His uneasy grin turns stone-faced as he revolves towards the entrance and allows Akechi to walk over first, holding the wooden door open for the both of them to enter. The doorman requests the 3,000 yen entrance fee as they walk over to the counter, and before Akechi can move to retrieve his wallet from his pants pocket, Akira swiftly pays for the both of them.

“ _I_ invited _you_ out, I should at least have been the one to pay the entry fee,” Akechi sneers, shaking his head incredulously, but no genuine malice lurks in the assertion. He moves to the side, motioning for Akira to lead the way to whichever table he chooses. “After you.”

The black-haired boy shrugs, turning and slipping by the detective, barely brushing his arm against Akechi as he seeks out a good spot for them to relax at. As he glances around, he tries his damnedest not to think about the way the skin of his arm now prickles and burns, even under his jacket, like he’s been bitten by something venomous. He settles on a two-seat table near the windows in the back, perfect to stay out of the way, and out of sight, of other patrons, but still allowing for a good view of the stage and piano.

Not that Akira plans on being able to focus on anything tonight besides the pouty detective now sitting across from him.

“So,” said detective begins, deadpan, peeling off his black winter gloves and shoving them into his pocket, “how have you been? Outside of, you know. Being the _fearless leader_ in the noble quest to take down Maruki.”

Akira scoffs at the blatant jab. “Fine. There isn’t much else going on, other than just...” He isn’t really sure what to say, as he doesn’t want to flat out reveal to Akechi that he has no time outside of working and Phantom Thieves business for leisure or rest. “I’m usually helping out at the coffee shop in my spare time,” he admits. He takes off his own gloves, placing them on the booth seat beside him.

Akechi smiles gently. “Ah. I haven’t visited Leblanc in a while,” he muses, tapping his fingers together. “I should definitely come in for a cup of coffee again sometime soon. Nobody makes it as well as you do.”

The dark-haired boy isn’t sure if he means it, and isn’t sure if it was supposed to come off as a genuine compliment to his barista skills or a haphazard flirtation, but whatever it was, it instantly lights a fire in his heart, making him flush. He glances downward.

“It’s been months since you’ve even set foot in there,” Akira mutters, looking back up when he senses that the eyes that were previously trained on him shifted elsewhere.

A heavy-set man with a mustache and short greying hair stands before them, holding a ballpoint pen, a thick, yellowing pad of paper, and a daily specials menu.

“What can I get for you tonight?” he cheerfully inquires.

Akira immediately settles for a simple order; a small curry beef bowl, the same easy meal he quickly whips up for himself sometimes when he works late at Ore no Beko.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Akechi discreetly tug his wallet out of his jacket pocket, opening it for the waiter to see. A handful of crisp green and yellow 2,000 yen notes stick out of the top, the man’s gaze overtly drifting there before he glances at Akechi’s detective badge and then back up to the boy’s face, eyes immediately going wide.

“Ah! The celebrity detective prince! What would you like to order tonight?”

Akira inadvertently scoffs, immediately covering his mouth with his elbow and pretending like it was a cough.

Akechi gestures for the waiter to lean in closer, and whispers “get me two Kamikazes, each with an extra shot of vodka, with no hassle and that entire pile of yen you were guffawing over in my wallet is your tip for tonight.”

The man gives a knowing smirk, a thumbs up, and sings “ _coming right u-u-up~!_ ” as he waltzes away, a newfound pep in his step.

Akechi turns back towards Akira with a frown, noticing that the dark-haired boy is looking at him with incredulity.

“Hey, a celebrity status and money can get you almost anything, anywhere. Might as well use it to my advantage,” he elaborates with a shrug.

“You… You’re planning on drinking? We’re still technically underage, Akechi.”

The detective lets out a snicker, closing his eyes and leaning back against the plush cushion backrest of the seat. “That’s never stopped me. And it’s never stopped you, either.”

He’s not wrong. Akechi knows he’s not wrong, because they’ve bummed cheap beer and saké off of Sojiro multiple times before, during the summer, which they drank _together._

“Yes, but the difference is, _we’re in public_. We could get in huge trouble if we’re caught. I still have to keep a clean record, you know.”

Something in Akechi’s expression immediately changes, a nearly unnoticeable twitch in his lip, and he silently focuses his eyes intently on Akira’s, pupils piercing daggers deep into Akira’s very soul. Every minuscule movement Akechi makes puts Akira on edge, a chilly nervousness suddenly washing over him.

“I’m buying you a drink. Nothing bad is going to happen. At least have the courtesy to stop whining about it.”

The tension is broken when a round of applause sounds out from the other side of the restaurant. Akira turns his head to see a woman in a sparkly red floor-length dress step up onto the stage, a man in a black suit joining her on the piano.

She wraps her hands around the microphone stand and starts to sing softly, accompanied by a gentle sonata.

Both Akechi and Akira observe her in silence, watching as she shifts from foot to foot, occasionally pausing for a breath.

“Jazz Jin doesn’t usually have live singers on Saturdays,” Akechi begins, stealing Akira’s attention back, “but she’s fairly popular from what I heard and they paid her extra to come in specially tonight.” 

“There’s a large festival beginning tonight in the center of Kichijōji and I’m assuming a lot of people are going to be stopping in here for a few drinks within the hour, because even with the cover charge, it’s cheaper, and warmer, to drink here than at those wretched overpriced food stalls.”

Akira makes an agreeable grunt, turning back towards the singer.

A while passes, the woman making it through a few songs, before Akechi speaks again. “This is really nice, you know. If nothing else, I’ve always personally appreciated how we’re able to sit in silence together and just enjoy the environment without any kind of overwhelming awkwardness.”

“Or a need to pretend to be someone you’re not?” Akira offers.

Akechi scoffs in return.

“Yes, I suppose that’s true, too,” he sighs, closing his eyes. “I don’t really consider you a _friend,_ but a lot of the time, I’m not at all opposed to your presence. It’s... refreshing to be out and around someone the same age as me for once.”

Akira can’t help but smile at what he knows to most likely be the warmest sentiment he’ll get from the detective tonight.

“I guess after everything, we aren’t really rivals anymore, either,” Akira muses after a few moments, “so what are we?”

Akechi seems to be taken off guard by the question, and immediately glares at him, but Akira can see the gears in his mind slowly churning out an answer.

“Hm.”

They both give their attention to the two extremely large glasses that are then placed gently on the table, the waiter smiling as he slides one toward each of them and walks away. Both cocktails are filled to the rim with a cloudy light yellow liquid, lime slices speared on the side of each salt-lined concave.

Akira is both overwhelmed and hesitant, as someone who has never tried any type of mixed drink before, but he grabs at it, pulling it closer, inspecting it.

Akechi picks up his own drink, preparing to sip it, but upon seeing Akira’s inquiring face, he provides the information he seems to be searching for. “It’s vodka, orange-flavored liqueur, and lime juice. It shouldn’t be so strong that it inebriates us, but hopefully it brings a little buzz.”

The dark-haired boy takes a very small initial sip and immediately makes a puckered face. The promising hint of artificial orange flavor mixes with the sour of straight lime juice, but the overwhelming scent and taste akin to a strong cleaning product makes his stomach churn and his nostrils flare out.

But when he looks back up at Akechi and watches him chug full sips with no regard or inclination of it tasting nasty, draining half the glass shockingly fast, Akira sucks up his misgivings and mirrors him.

After mentally trying to turn off his taste buds, being unable to, and nearly making himself gag, he glances back up at a stone-faced Akechi, clearly reveling in his self-inflicted suffering.

“Have you been here recently?” is how Akechi attempts to start up a new mindless conversation.

“Not since the last time we were here together,” Akira admits, taking another sip of the barely-orange-flavored rat poison in his glass. Akechi tilts his head and gives him a pointed look.

“That’s a little surprising. I thought you might have come out here with one of your _friends_ ,” he jibes, distaste evident for the word and its implications. If Akira didn’t know any better, he’d think the taste of the cocktail was finally seeping into Akechi’s tongue.

Akira shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, taking another generous gulp of his drink.

“I don’t think any of them even know this place exists. It’s kind of a hole in the wall,” he considers, and then says, sadly, “but I’ve always considered it _our_ spot anyways.”

Akechi’s eyes light up, almost invisibly, as he finishes off his own drink.

They’re both quiet again, and Akira is incredibly grateful for the singer being on stage, to continue to have a place to redirect both of their attention during the awkward pauses in conversation.

The smell of spicy curry wafts over, curling into Akira’s nostrils, and he knows the waiter is coming with his food before he’s even in his line of sight. The jolly man comes close, places the small, steaming bowl on the table, and smiles at Akira.

“This looks delicious, thank you,” he acknowledges gratefully as the waiter bows slightly and wanders back away. Akechi gives the bowl a vaguely disdainful look.

Akira furrows his eyebrows, glancing at him in return. “Did you eat any dinner?”

“No, but I’m really not very hungry. I had a big lunch.”

At that, they’re both silent as Akira digs into his meal. They take to people watching, inspecting the patrons that shuffle in and out of the club, as well as continuing to listen to the keening singer, who is belting out a beautiful lament.

The waiter steps by again, and Akechi grabs his attention, extending his index and middle fingers to indicate a request for two more drinks.

“ _Wait_ ,” Akira says, looking up over a mouthful of rice, “I haven’t even finished my first one yet.”

An expressionless face stares back at him. “Then finish it now.”

At Akechi’s demand, he cautiously picks up the glass and downs the rest, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallows, chasing it with a bite of spicy beef. The liquid burns his tongue and his throat as it moves down to his stomach, radiating a welcome warmth.

The dark-haired boy begins to speak again, “I think it would be nice to stay here for a few more hours, we don’t have to rush down our next drinks. I don’t have to catch my train back until 11:30.”

The detective considers what he says, absentmindedly tapping his fingers on the dark wooden table. 

“Hm. Actually, I think I’d like to get out of here soon and go investigate the stalls, you know, find out about all of that festival commotion around the center of the neighborhood.”

Akira is slightly taken aback at the statement. “I thought you didn’t like any of that stuff?”

Akechi shrugs, slightly raising his eyebrows, and Akira takes another large forkful of beef and rice to his lips. 

“We’ll see what happens, I suppose,” he offers with a vague smirk, and there’s a certain intonation, some hidden underlying meaning that Akechi laces into those simple words that makes Akira’s heart leap up into his throat, making it hard for him to breathe.

The air around them suddenly begins to feel suffocatingly stuffy, and another chill hits Akira, running down his spine. He can feel Akechi’s pupils studying him intently, passing back and forth over his downturned face. His stomach churns, and he has to stop eating for a few minutes, or else he might vomit his entire beef bowl back up.

Before they know it, the waiter is back again, placing two of the same large cocktails down on the table before hurrying away. Before he can even make it around the corner, Akechi grabs his glass and immediately begins drinking. Akira’s eyes focus on the way his neck moves, throat bobbing as the liquid goes down.

The strange air dissipates and Akira finally has the strength to take the last few bites of his food, pushing the ceramic bowl aside and swapping in his next drink.

He turns his head to glance at the woman on stage again while holding the glass, mouthing it, and then sluggishly tilts back to focus on Akechi. Everything starts to feel slow, _warm._

Akechi gives him a dangerous toothy grin from behind the rim of his glass, and they silently agree to race each other to the bottom. The detective has no problem with taking the lead, as he was already well on his way to drinking the whole glass, but Akira, feeling uninhibited and _daring,_ throws his head back slightly and basically pours it down the back of his throat, swallowing every drop until his glass is empty.

When he places the glass on the table with a _clink_ and comes back up for air, he gags, face turning pale. This cocktail was a little less pungent, more sour like the orange and lime flavors it promised to be, but it was still _alcohol._ He breathes through his nose and glares forward as Akechi guzzles the rest of his own drink, chuckling.

Footsteps louder than the music near the table, and suddenly, the waiter is grabbing at the empty dishes, collecting them. Before he steps away, Akechi tacitly asks him for the check.

Akira leans in, finding it slightly difficult to keep his head upright. “You in a rush to get home?” he questions, eyes lingering over the detective’s freckled cheeks.

“No,” he breathes out, breaking his eyes away, grabbing for his wallet, “but I don’t really want to stay here much longer.”

He pulls out the wad of yen he illicitly promised the waiter, tucking it under one of the metal menu holders in the middle of the table, sighing. Silently, he slides his gloves back on, rubbing his hands together, wallet held between them.

“We’re really going to spend,” Akira begins, glancing at the clock on the wall, “two and a half hours walking around Kichijōji? It’s not that big of a neighborhood and I don’t really think there’s _that_ much to see that we don’t see in our normal-”

“Don’t worry about it.” Akechi interrupts. “ _Don’t worry_ ,” he repeats, gentler this time.

Akira, warm and _woozy,_ doesn’t have the capacity to worry about it anymore, not right now. He trusts Akechi’s judgment for the moment, smiling softly at the other boy.

“Here’s your check, sir,” the mustached man suddenly calls out, handing it to the detective with a fat grin as he eyes the promised tip on the table. As he stands there, Akira notices the singer on stage stepping down behind him, holding a menu and primed to speak to him.

“Thank you so much!” Akechi enthusiastically gives, voice peaking at an unnaturally high-pitched alto, an uncanny fake smile showing his straight, whitened teeth. “Lets go, Akira,” he finishes, pulling out a few green yen notes, handing them with the check to the waiter, and pocketing his wallet again while standing up slowly.

Akira’s eyes are stuck on the detective, suddenly obsessed with scanning over his chapped lips as he blindly gropes for his gloves beside him, sliding them on. He rises from his seat, swaying gently.

They waltz through the center of the restaurant to the entrance, Akira trying his hardest to stay stable on his feet, lightheadedness hitting him in waves. The doorman’s head pops out once they’ve stepped outside and a cheery declaration of “have a good night!” carries towards them in the wind.

“I will,” Akechi calls back, boasting another fake smile.

When he turns back around, towards Akira, Akechi scoffs, immediately losing any hint of expression. He grimaces, rolling his eyes, and begins to walk forward.

“Follow me,” he says, feet light on the cold, damp ground.

Akira, overwhelmingly warm in the cold night air, does exactly as he’s told. His cheeks are flushed and he’s slightly heavier on his feet as he blindly follows the path the detective makes through the streets, towards the center of the neighborhood, but it’s not like he has much else better he could be doing.

They walk together silently, focused and pushing through a dense crowd, Akira accidentally brushing up against Akechi in the narrow street ever so often. The close contact, along with the buzz, lights his cheeks ablaze. At first, it’s just their gloved hands, their limbs and extremities that mistakenly brush. Akira desperately wants to grab on. 

After walking for a good ten minutes, existing becoming increasingly _hilariously_ difficult and everything around him slowly blurring, the alcohol seems to finally have seeped into his entire system, and Akira, begrudgingly, loses his coordination. He starts to constantly stumble, the collisions getting more bodily, Akechi sighing and outright having to stop walking to steady the dark-haired boy once or twice. He doesn’t necessarily enjoy not having complete control over his body, and he probably looks like an absolute drunken fool to everyone around them, but he’s this far gone, and, really, there’s nothing he can do about it now. A giddy giggle quietly escapes his mouth. Akechi ignores it, pressing forward.

When they finally make it into an unoccupied space - an offshoot clearing in a side alley, near a few food stands full of particularly raucous patrons that could be heard even from around the corner, Akira stops to steady himself. He squeezes his eyes shut and places a hand against the wall, using the other to remove his scarf and carelessly shove it in his jacket pocket. It takes a minute before he’s able to calm himself down enough to take a few deep breaths of clean, fresh air. 

He nervously laughs again, dizziness overcoming him for a moment before he’s back to smiling shyly, slowly looking up to eventually meet the tired, disappointed gaze of the detective.

“If I would have known that it would get you this _drunk_ , I would never have bought the cocktails.”

Akira perks up at the statement; it’s the first thing that Akechi has said to him since they left the jazz club, and he still sounds completely sober.

“We had the same amount,” he muses outwardly, “ _we had the same amount and you’re’n’t feeling anything._ ” Akechi’s face vaguely contorts and he casually glances away, but Akira carelessly pries. “Why is that? Do you really drink so often that it takes more than what you drank to get you even a little buzzed?”

“That’s none of your business. You’re just a damn lightweight,” the detective spits.

“It _is_ my business! I _lo-_ ... I care about you.” _Shit._

Something dangerous momentarily lights up in Akechi’s crimson eyes, a snorting chuckle simultaneously escaping him, fading away just as quickly as it appeared. Akira isn’t sure if he’s imagining things.

Both of them are silent, Akira now leaning entirely against the wall and watching Akechi’s slight movements as he unexpectedly removes his gloves and stares back, lost in thought, seemingly trying to figure out what to do with the drunken boy. 

As soon as Akira’s eyes drift shut, just for a brief attempt to try and refocus his sight, he has the breath knocked out of him; Akechi grabs him by the shoulders and shoves him, _hard,_ against the cold cement wall. He pins him there with his own body, faces far _too_ close, hot breath ghosting over Akira’s cheek. The expression on the detective’s face is mixed, slightly hard to read, but even through bleary vision, Akira recognizes that intense look in his eyes, the quivering snarl of his lips.

They’re alone together in a dark alleyway, and Akechi _absolutely_ looks like he wants to kill him.

Akira lets out a shaky breath, swallowing thickly, feeling his muscles liquefy into jelly, his brain completely ceasing to function properly. His heart pounds against his chest. He, theoretically, should try to fight back, to get away before he gets hurt. He’s a helpless fly, caught in a spider’s web. 

_And yet-_

“You aren’t going to kill me,” he laughs, apprehensively, yet somehow utterly sure of himself.

Akechi blinks, scoffing, but his face seems to lighten just slightly.

“No. I wasn’t planning on it.”

_That’s reassuring._

Akira relaxes, only slightly, secretly appreciating the proximity between their bodies, until Akechi’s hand suddenly moves from where it was gripping his shoulder, to his neck, encircling it. His eyes go wide, breath hitching, and he can feel the detective pressing tighter whilst moving his body impossibly closer.

“ _Then... why is your hand wrapped around my throat?”_ Akira smugly whimpers, biting his lip and breathing through his nose, trying to redirect his thoughts to _anything_ other than the way the pressure of Akechi’s warm hand on his trachea makes his entire body heat up, makes the depths of his stomach curl and his remaining inhibitions begin to disappear. 

“Mm... Because I can tell that you _enjoy_ _it_ , _Kurusu-kun_.”

His head begins to throb gently with a certain feeling of thickness as his air supply is deprived and dark spots manifest behind his eyes, melting into his blurry vision. His neck lolls back and he rapidly becomes more and more lightheaded, until suddenly, he is able to gasp for air again, the force released.

He looks back at Akechi, eyes half-lidded, shuddering, mouth barely hanging open. Confusion settles over him. In the back of his mind, the slight feeling of panic swirls around, but he’s unable to grasp it; a strange elation drowns it out instead, making him feel queasy.

The physical repose is abrupt, however, as Akira suddenly feels hot air snaking down his neck in place of a hand, Akechi’s face leaning in closer, his lips hovering over the cold exposed skin. The smirk that he gives Akira, glancing up from under his eyebrows, sends waves through him. He's weak and vulnerable as he tries to steady his shaking legs, relying on the wall for support.

“H-hey,” Akira stutters. Nearby, a group of drunken bar-goers begin laughing riotously and the boy is removed from his haze, remembering where they are. 

He sobers up slightly, regaining some of his composure, and tries to push Akechi away; it’s fruitless, as Akechi takes advantage of Akira’s incoordination and pins his quivering body to the wall again, face leaning back in. A jolt moves through his body when he feels the warm, wet sensation of lips trailing over his neck, moving upwards, towards his jaw.

“Akechi-!”

Before he can say anything more, gentle pinches, like dulled pin-pricks, begin to ravage the skin set against his jaw. He feels a hand snake its way into his curly black hair, pulling gently, coercing him into tilting his head up and further exposing his neck and jaw. He’s speechless, only a quiet yelp leaving his mouth as Akechi begins to nibble harder, with more intent, following his jawline up to his ear. Being able to hear the detective’s quiet, now ragged, breaths brings Akira to chew his lip.

“You _care about_ me, _Akira?_ ” the boy asks in a sultry whisper, tugging harder at his hair as Akira’s breath hitches. He simply nods his head in response, woozy and unable to form any kind of coherent sentence in return.

Suddenly, the detective pulls his face away, removing his hand, and himself, to a more acceptable distance. “How _foolish_ ,” he chuckles, eyes wandering back and forth over Akira’s features before catching directly below his nose.

His heart skips a few beats when warm, soft, wet lips abruptly meet his own. Burning heat surges through his torso.

The world seems to disappear around him as Akechi’s lips hungrily move against his, trying to initiate a reciprocal interest in the kiss, pressing firmer, his entire body trapping him against the concrete wall; but Akira’s mouth stays steady and closed. He shuts his eyes, no longer inebriated for the moment, making a noise of vague repulsion against the detective’s mouth while trying to writhe away.

He manages to move his head and take in a gulp of air. At the same time, Akechi tries to lunge in and take his breath away again.

Akira practically squawks, “Akechi, _wait_ ,” his hands quickly shooting up to push against the detective’s chest and hold him off, just for a moment. Surprisingly, Akechi listens, shifting his weight away from Akira.

He wants to look him in the eyes while he speaks, but even just a glance of the detective’s crimson irises, staring back at him expectantly, makes him shudder. Cowardly, he looks away.

Akira takes another breath, and begins, “I don’t think this... _I don’t think I want this_. It’s not a good idea. And I was under the assumption that _you_ definitely didn’t want it, either.”

Akechi strikes him into the wall again, _hard_. He chokes and sputters as his body bounces against it.

“You piece of _SHIT!_ ” Akechi loudly rasps, hand grasping at Akira’s hair, nearly tearing it out. “Don’t you _DARE_ lie to me, I _know_ you want this, you asshole! I’m not a goddamn moron, you’ve been _lusting_ after me for the past few months, even after we stopped fucking around and _pretending_ like we could go back to how it used to be!”

This strikes a nerve somewhere deep in Akira, irritating him immensely, because _of course_ Akechi is right. Akira feels the sudden impulsive urge to deck him, right in his pretty face.

But he shakes that thought away. Because even after they broke up, after Akechi _tried to kill him_ , all he’s wanted was to welcome the detective back into his bed with open arms and put all of the rotten, awful shit that happened aside. Because even though Akechi dropped his _facade,_ let his true colors shine through and removed the mask that he had put on for everyone, him included... Akira is still hopelessly infatuated with him.

Akira still _wants_ him. And here Akechi stands, practically handing himself gift-wrapped to Akira. Yet, the thought makes him sick. He _shouldn’t_ want him anymore. It’s entirely wrong to allow this to happen, because nothing Akechi does going forward can make up for what he did.

Even though Akira _knows_ that he’s making a horrible decision, and that the Goro Akechi he knew and cared about before was just a clever front, devised merely as a tool for gaining trust… even though his hands shake and his stomach churns uncomfortably and his pulse hammers in his neck, he can’t deny the small part of him that craves utter ruination at the hands of the boy currently trapping him against a wall in a dark seedy alley in Kichijōji.

And in the end, it really doesn’t matter how tentative Akira feels about it. _Akechi_ wants this, and Akira is, _always has been_ , absolutely ready to give the detective whatever he wants.

Akira gently leans himself back against the wall, a complete juxtaposition of the intensity that Akechi is treating him with, and blinks his half-lidded eyes. Akechi dives forward again, lips smothering the Akira’s in a bruising kiss.

Akira returns the kiss this time, his cold chapped lips moving in sync with the ones that are fiercely attacking his. This first real kiss makes his eyes flutter shut, a welcome heat spreading from his mouth and curling down through his body, like taking the first sip of a too hot drink. As their lips, unyielding, continuously meld together, his knees go weak again, and he wraps both of his arms around Akechi for leverage, desperately tangling his hands into the detective’s light brown hair. He gasps for air at every opportunity, becoming increasingly needy for Akechi to give him _more_ , to come closer, to sink his teeth into him and make him bleed.

The logical part of his mind dully screams to push the detective away, abruptly shove him off of his shaky body and run, _get the hell out of there_. 

But he can't hide the moans that escape him when Akechi’s tongue desperately slips into his mouth, sliding over his teeth, wasting no time in diving further in and prodding his upper palate. He can't ignore the sudden ocean of pleasure that’s drowning him slowly.

Without detaching their mouths, the detective presses his whole body flat against Akira, pushing up onto him, tacking him to the wall. He manages to smirk into the kiss, casually shimmying his leg into the space in between Akira’s shuddering thighs; a jolt of heat spikes through the dark-haired boy, straight to his groin, as Akechi purposefully rubs that leg against his already half-hard cock, drawing a deep _gasp_ out of Akira’s chest and into the detective’s mouth.

At that, Akechi closes his eyes and pulls away from Akira’s face, grinning once more, a thin line of saliva taut between them. There’s an intense _hunger_ in the way the detective stares at him, bright red lips glistening. Panting, Akira tries to compose himself, tries to keep himself from completely surrendering to the stimulation Akechi continues to give with his knee in between Akira’s thighs, the heat pooling in his stomach.

“It’s so extremely in your nature to just _let_ me do this to you, _"_ Akechi begins, snarkily whispering, and it’s like he’s read Akira’s mind when he finishes, “solely because _I_ want it.”

Akira rolls his eyes, a subtle “ _mhm_ ” sounding in the back of his throat as he grabs Akechi’s shoulders, and pulls him back in desperately, a loud _clank_ as his teeth smack against the other’s. His lips press over and over, _hard_ , but Akechi presses back even harder, tongue pushing into Akira’s mouth once more. His hands grip tensely on the back of Akechi’s tan jacket, the soft fabric bunched in between his fingers.

Warily, the black-haired boy begins to sensually suck on the appendage, Akechi’s breath catching in his throat for a moment as Akira’s mouth moves smoothly over it, lips soft and firm around it. Akechi’s eyes flutter shut, and he seems to let the sensation of him lazily tongue-fucking Akira’s mouth wash over him, moaning, gently grinding his knee into the boy’s crotch.

That’s when Akira quickly snaps his teeth down, releasing almost as soon as the bite actually happens.

“MMMFUCK!” Akechi cries out, immediately jerking away. He cautiously scrapes his upper row of teeth against the top of his tongue, disgust apparent in the way his nose curls and his eyes narrow.

“Fuck you!” he hisses, spitting, blood-tinged saliva staining the already wet ground. Something like adrenaline shoots through Akira’s veins at the sight, causing him to shudder.

 _This is his chance,_ he thinks. _If he had any sense, this would be the prime opportunity for him to scramble away, make a run for it, get the hell out of here. Nothing is stopping Akechi from genuinely hurting him, but likewise, nothing is stopping Akira from leaving. He’s much quicker than Akechi, a faster and more agile runner than the detective will ever be. He could sprint away right now, a blur of dark colors like a bullet down the alleyway and onto the train home. He could block Akechi’s number, and never have to go through this emotional turmoil again. He could just leave now, get away from the situation unscathed. He could just leave. He could-_

Akechi, with dilated pupils and eyes alight with fury, practically _growls_ and claws at Akira’s curls, tugging his face back demandingly, lips gravitating towards lips; Akira feels a row of teeth forcefully knock into his bottom lip, wincing as it splits open.

The taste of copper spreads between both of their mouths as Akechi lets out a whiny moan and returns to devouring him, sucking on that spot that was just injured, and Akira shivers, his cock twitching at the sensation. The taller boy is all tongue and teeth, clashing brutally against Akira’s face, smearing both of their blood all over his swollen lips. The specific _flavor_ of the kiss is something that he knows will be seared into his mind for a long time to come, and he revels in the feeling, painfully turned on solely by the knowledge that their mingling blood is on Akechi’s tongue as well as his own.

He gasps for breath at every opportunity. But he’s immediately smothered every single time he starts to pull away, Akechi sealing their lips back together, making his lungs burn. Before he knows it, he feels the release of his hair, and then he’s struggling even more to return the normal flow of oxygen to his body as Akechi’s limber, cold fingers wrap around his throat, pressing deep enough to leave bruises. The detective grins impossibly wide against Akira’s lips as he squeezes, the lack of blood flow forcing Akira to shut his eyes, succumbing to the dark spots clouding his vision once more until a small noise involuntarily pleads out from the back of his throat.

Even at this, Akechi does not let up. He stares as Akira’s eyes fly back open and the dark haired boy begins to struggle, grunting and bringing his hands up to try and pry Akechi’s grip away from his throat. Finally, he releases Akira, who immediately pulls back and begins wheezing. He looks at the detective, eyes half-lidded, sucking in shuddering breaths, and watches him as a hint of his pink-red tongue darts out and licks some of Akira’s blood off his bottom lip. Nausea surges through him, alongside a certain smoky heat, flowing down and collecting in his groin.

He tries to collect himself, his mind still swimming in a dense fog, swallowing thickly. He shudders, frustrated at the feeling of his full cock leaking against his boxers, pressing against the constraints of his jeans. It makes him feel disgusting, subhuman in a way, that he’s so horribly turned on in a situation _like this_ , but he glances down at Akechi’s black slacks and immediately feels a lump in his throat at the sight of a similar bulge pressing against Akechi's black slacks.

The detective’s keen eyes notice him gawking, and suddenly, a cold hand grabs at his chin, forcing him to look back up and meet his gaze. 

Akira stares into his eyes and it’s the final push over the edge of losing all of his inhibitions.

Akechi speaks, a firm tone commanding Akira, vibrating in his ears,

“Get down. _On your fucking knees_.”

He allows the detective to forcefully shove him to the ground, his shoulder slamming against the wet, solid concrete, the sting of a freshly scraped elbow cutting through his haze as he scrambles upright, _onto his knees, just as Akechi asked_ , shuffling closer, closer, _closer_.

“Now... show me what you’re really good for, _Akira,”_ Akechi growls, low and sultry, smirking dangerously, all sharp teeth and bright red irises with blown pupils staring down, not breaking eye contact with the dark-haired boy. Akira can’t help but chew at his lower lip absentmindedly, bringing out a subtle hot pink color in the already blown, injured skin. His mind reels, brain lagging behind every other part of his body.

While still holding the other boy’s gaze from under his thick eyelashes, Akira’s trembling clammy hands make quick work of the brown leather belt wrapped around Akechi’s waist, unfastening the silver buckle with a metallic _clank_ and swiftly pulling the object out of the belt loop. There’s _something_ about the way it slides out of its confines, the leather dragging over Akechi’s thigh, buckle _jingling_ , that makes his heart race, swallowing thickly. It feels obscene and shameful in a way that makes his stomach twist and heat rush to his cock.

The belt falls to the ground as his hand brushes over the obvious bulge at the front of Akechi’s pants, causing the boy to elicit a quiet _groan_ before Akira’s fingers are fumbling to undo the two buttons keeping the article of clothing on the detective’s body.

Neither of them say anything in the few seconds it takes for Akira to tug the zipper open and have Akechi’s black slacks pulled down around his ankles.

Before they continue, however, Akira pulls back for a moment, looking up at the detective once more.

“ _Akechi_ ,” he whispers. This seems to frustrate the brunette more than anything, causing him to roll his eyes and let out a shaky breath.

“ _Hmmm?_ ” Akechi hisses impatiently. 

Akira launches himself onto his feet before Akechi can protest, and pushes against his body, ignoring his bewilderment and walking him backwards until his shoulder blades hit the concrete wall. He leans in close to his face, breathing heavily, directly into his ear, just to fluster him.

He gestures towards the wall, Akechi’s face adopting a confused look. Suavely, he places his hands on the wall on either side of the detective, holding himself up at an incline over him. “You’re going to need something to lean against,” Akira elaborates with a grin before sliding back down and instantly mouthing against Akechi’s hard cock, constrained and leaking, through the fabric of his grey tartan boxers.

The entire situation might be worth it for this moment, Akira thinks, savoring the surprised high-pitched _squeal_ that Akechi releases, causing his face to turn crimson and one of his hands to immediately shoot upward, covering his mouth.

It’s adorable, and Akira would laugh out loud if he wasn’t absolutely certain that that’s what would get him killed tonight. 

Instead, he ignores the detective’s surprise and the pang of emotion that buries itself deep in his heart. His palms dig into Akechi’s thighs and he continues his work, intent on making more of those noises escape Akechi’s mouth, his saliva soaking the fabric as he teases. He flicks his tongue at the head every so often, which always seems to take Akechi by surprise, a loud choking sound mixing into his quiet moans with every intermittent lick. 

He pulls away with a heavy sigh when the detective begins to absentmindedly roll his hips against Akira’s mouth. Akechi looks down at him with a frown and a groan, eyes glossed over. He’s completely relying on the wall for support, leaning back against it, arms slack at his sides.

 _I’ve subdued him,_ Akira thinks, taking in a breath of reprieve, closing his eyes. _I’m back in control of the situation._

Except, _he isn’t_ , as clearly demonstrated when Akechi suddenly pushes his cock out through the slit of his boxers and yanks Akira by the hair back towards it, causing him to yelp.

“Did I tell you to stop?” he whines, leaning his hips forward to press the bare, leaking head of his length against Akira’s firmly closed lips. He tilts the other boy’s head up as Akira tries to turn it away, continuously using his curly hair like puppet strings, forcing him to meet his gaze.

The black-haired boy pales, suddenly nauseated by the knowledge that he doesn’t truly have any semblance of control in this situation. 

His mind begins to shuffle and fall through the branches of an internal dilemma, eventually, he latches onto one point; the detective hardly deserves it, but Akira truly does want to make him feel _good_.

Akira wants to show Akechi that he’s willing to give him whatever he needs, whatever he _wants_. Just like that, it’s like a hardwired switch has been flipped in his mind.

Somewhere close by, a cacophony of laughter breaks out again, ringing in Akira’s ears as he closes his grey eyes and takes the head of Akechi’s length into his mouth, warm tongue swirling over it. Akechi hisses through his clenched teeth, the back of his head hitting the concrete wall, as he gently tangles his hands in Akira’s hair.

He absentmindedly thrusts his hips forward, forcing himself even further into Akira’s mouth, the flat of Akira’s tongue gaining familiarity with the underside of Akechi’s cock, tracing every vein and sliding smoothly against it as he begins to suck with a fervent passion, as if his life depended on it.

“ _Ooh. Mmph,”_ Akechi groans, voice wavering, and then; a quiet, breathy statement whistles out of his soft smirking lips, glazed half-lidded eyes shining,

_“Good boy.”_

Akira’s vision swims as white hot arousal rushes through him, making his knees go weak. His body and brain short-circuit for a second, a nauseous heat moving through him, and he stills his mouth for a moment, letting out a barely audible whine. Akechi gingerly removes his hands from where they were caught in Akira’s curls. Warm and soft, he drags them around to the front of the black-haired boy’s face, cupping his cheeks and gently tilting Akira’s head up to make eye contact. The touch burns his skin.

“Why don’t you be even more of a good boy for me and make yourself feel good too,” Akechi whispers during the brief reprieve, words dripping like honey out of those wet lips.

Drunk and high on not only the _praise_ , but the sudden change in how Akechi is treating him, Akira simply nods, not breaking eye contact. He continues to suck, Akechi’s hands winding back into his hair with a moan, whilst bringing one of his own hands up off the ground, and slowly grasping at the belt around his waist. He glances down while balancing fumbling the leather strip with making sure his mouth is still moving at a relatively uniform pace around Akechi’s stiff cock, and dazedly concludes that if he was any less dexterous, taking his belt off with one hand would be impossible.

But, he manages. Akira can feel the detective’s eyes trained on him, watching him as he clumsily undresses his lower half. The _clack_ of the buckle coming undone and the feeling of his pants loosening up makes his heart beat just a fraction of a second faster. He moans once his tight pants are low enough that his own achingly hard cock springs free.

He looks back up from under his lashes, meeting Akechi’s glaring maroon eyes once more, before plunging his free hand into his boxers and beginning to lightly stroke his own length to match the pace he’s still sucking the other boy off at, letting out a wanton sigh of relief at the feeling and shutting his eyes.

Akira lets himself feel good, _just like Akechi asked,_ stroking himself at a moderate pace. Akechi doesn’t complain, either, leaning into Akira, gently pulling his hair in an affirmation as Akira continues to get him off solely with his mouth.

They stay mostly silent and at this pace for a few minutes, both of them panting quietly and ocassionally letting out soft moans, Akira getting more desperate in chasing his own release and simultaneously sucking Akechi’s cock at the same quickening pace. 

The groups of city-goers at the nearby booths and food stands come into focus again, conversations waning in the wind, and then suddenly, a new group seems to join them, making an even louder racket.

The detective begins to push further, thrust himself harder against Akira’s face, throwing his head back against the concrete wall and shutting his eyes as he focuses on fucking the dark-haired boy’s mouth. It makes his split lip sting. Akira whines, trying to keep up, moving his mouth in time with the thrusts, but Akechi’s hips begin to stutter, his thrusts faster and more erratic.

He braces himself with one hand, knuckles scraping the ground as he takes it, takes it all, lets Akechi _use him,_ tears welling up at the corners of his eyes _._

In the back of his mind, Akira hears the echo of loud, steel-toed footsteps stomping around the corner, and he immediately quiets and stops stroking his own cock.

Akechi doesn’t stop, though, continuously moving in and out of Akira’s mouth. When the footsteps finally dissipate, Akira can’t help but let out a long held moan, immediately bringing his hand back to his waistband, hooking his fingers there and yanking his underwear down; back to getting himself off, but with a more extreme fervor than before.

He catches the detective looking down at him with _something_ in his eyes, an unreadable expression donning his face.

Akechi smirks, and slightly raises his eyebrows, the toothy cheshire grin a hot knife in Akira’s gut.

"You _really_ _like_ this, don’t you? You’re _disgusting, Akira,_ ” he groans, giving Akira’s hair a firmer tug and grip, pushing himself deeper into the boy’s throat, nearly gagging him. “I bet you could get off solely on the thought of all those people right over there who are absolutely completely unaware that you’re right here, right around the corner, being my little _bitch_."

Akira whines around Akechi’s cock, glancing up at him, tears staining his cheeks. He continues to stroke himself even harder at that statement, thrusting into his own hand, messy, sticky fingers sliding up and down his shaft. 

_“Or maybe...”_

He pulls himself out of Akira’s mouth with a wet _pop,_ saliva and precum dripping off of him and dribbling from Akira’s lips. 

“You’d be even more turned on if they _were_ aware.”

Akira’s lips go dry and his movements, as well as his heartbeat, halt at Akechi’s words. 

“Hmph,” Akechi sneers, “I wonder what happened to needing to be a _good little citizen_ who keeps a clean record, a poor boy who can get in _huge trouble_ if he gets caught doing something _he isn’t supposed to_?”

There’s a certain thrill, a spike of heat that shoots through him and makes his cock twitch at the thought of regular people on the other side of the concrete wall having a normal night out, absolutely oblivious to the fact that just around the corner, Akira’s on his knees letting the _celebrity detective prince himself_ fuck his mouth in this filthy alley.

It is even more enticing, however, to think that Akechi is trying to pull said oblivious, unwitting people into his and Akira’s little _game_ without anyone’s permission. And the absolute rush of it all is the knowledge that at any point in time, they _could_ easily be caught. There’s something enticingly rebellious about it all that appeals deeply to him.

_He wants to get caught doing something he definitely isn’t supposed to._

Before Akira can reply, he stares, infatuated, as Akechi drops down onto his knees, eye-level with the dark-haired boy.

“Wha-”

The detective presses his warm palm firm over Akira’s slightly open lips. “Shh,” he whispers, still smirking. “I’ll tell you when to make noise for me.”

Akira languidly nods. With the sight of compliance, Akechi removes his hand, replacing it with his sharp-toothed grin, which melts against Akira’s lips. They kiss like that for a while; gentle, mollifying movements of rough skin making Akira pant silently with desperation, increasingly needy for the return of the detective’s poisonous touch.

Rough hands move to his shoulders and push him down onto the cold ground, a certain mercy in the shove that makes Akira’s heart twinge. He falls onto his back, shoulder blades lifting him slightly above the stone, and Akechi climbs on top of him, sitting up on his stomach, brushing his still-clothed ass against Akira’s hard, leaking, _needy_ cock. A whimper dies in his throat at the contact when he remembers that Akechi wants him to stay quiet for now.

He bites down every single noise that tries to escape from his mouth. It’s easy enough when Akechi’s lips are on his, muffling the accidentals, but when the detective pulls away, it’s like torture.

“You’re a goddamn piece of shit, but at least you can listen to instructions,” the brunette hisses salaciously, face pressed against Akira’s burning cheek, breath whistling into his ears and whirling like a cloud of smoke settling directly over his brain. All the while, he continues to grind himself on Akira, the seat of his boxers soaked from the head of Akira’s dick.

Dazed, Akira inhales and bites his lip before relaxing his neck and letting his head drop to the dirty concrete with a thud, eyes shutting and eyebrows knitting close together as Akechi moans and moves eagerly on top of him. His vision focuses again to see the detective looking down at him, eyes soft and half-lidded, and he feels his gut start to go taut, a pleasurable sort of pain coursing through his groin at the inimitable sight. He chokes in a half-breath to keep himself from whining.

Akechi stills. His warm hands gently cradle Akira’s face again, one snaking around to reach behind his head, lifting it slightly into making eye contact.

He leans in closer, lips hovering over Akira’s. “ _Akira,_ ” he begins, swallowing, broken shaky breaths making the dark-haired boy’s skin buzz. Akira wants, so badly, to ask what he needs, but instead, brings his own hand up to stroke the other boy’s cheek, calmly, brushing his bangs gingerly to the side of his face.

Akechi leans into the touch, panting as he tilts his head slightly, eyelids fluttering shut. Akira runs his thumb back and forth over the soft skin, watching the detective’s body rise and fall, shivering gently.

His eyes open back up and he looks absolutely unhinged, hair messy, mouth hanging open, pupils blown, when he desperately keens, _“I need you to fuck me.”_

_Oh._

He isn’t sure why he wasn’t expecting that.

The request hits him like a truck. A half shocked-laugh, half _incredibly-turned-on-gasp,_ bursts out of his throat. He flinches when he immediately feels the cold, stinging, _powerful_ slap of a palm against his right cheek in response. The hand in question latches around his throat, squeezing with a profoundly dissonant gentleness. Akira’s mouth hangs open, and he simply stares, wide-eyed, at the culprit.

Akechi’s nose twitches, mouth now pulled into a wide grimace. His eyes, low under his downturned brows, glare daggers. “Didn’t I tell you not to make any noise until I gave you permission?” he growls, low and sultry, the sound vibrating through Akira’s body. 

The phantom feeling of the detective’s hand nearly breaking the skin on his cheek lingers, and Akira focuses on it, hoping that it will distract him from making another mistake. Instead, the burning feeling makes him more painfully _needy_ for Akechi’s touch.

 _Needy for Akechi to hurt him, again and again,_ the back of his brain supplies.

Akira doesn’t protest; he buries anything else he has to say, and lies there, nearly motionless. Staring, as Akechi, in one swift movement, pulls a small clear bottle of lube out of his inner jacket pocket.

 _Of course he brought that with him_ , Akira thinks. No matter what, this is how Akechi was planning on having the night end. _Getting exactly what he wants._

“Let’s see if you can do what I say this time,” he hisses, annoyed. “I want you to be loud for me. I want all of those drunk assholes around the corner over there to hear us.”

Akira nods, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows thickly. He wriggles his body slightly, repositioning his back and pelvis to be more comfortable, and then sits himself up more, elbows braced against the ground to hold his upper body weight. His cock aches, gut taut and burning with the need for release.

He watches intently as Akechi scrambles onto his knees over Akira’s stomach and pulls his boxers all the way down, completely revealing his own slicked-up cock and his bare, plump ass. The sound of the bottle cap popping open in the detective’s hand is a familiar one, recognized from days when it sounded out in a completely different scenario of intimacy between the two. The memories make Akira’s heart wrench, a deep longing settling within him for something that doesn’t exist anymore. For _someone_ that doesn’t exist anymore.

He takes this, every part of it, commits it all to memory, because it’s what Akechi is still willing to give him. And even in the harshness of it all, there are still moments, few and far in between, that Akira clutches to like a drop of water in the desert; moments that give him a vague hope that maybe, some aspects of the Goro Akechi he knew before weren’t _complete_ falsities.

It’s not long before Akechi covers his index and middle finger in lube, carefully closes and places the bottle back into his pocket, and reaches behind himself. He makes eye contact with Akira again; it’s intense, dilated pupils boring straight into his soul. Hesitantly, he presses against his own hole, letting out a hissing moan as the two fingers push in slowly but with complete ease, sliding in up to his middle knuckles.

He presses his hips backwards and sinks all the way down; even though it’s not _that_ much more, Akechi’s breath hitches and he groans loudly, breaking eye contact to close his eyes and settle. Akira’s eyes drift down to Akechi’s hard, twitching cock leaking onto his black jacket.

The dark-haired boy murmurs praise as Akechi clutches onto his shirt with one hand begins to fuck himself open on top of him with the other, bouncing up and down on his knees, adding another finger with no resistance. He’s loud, mouth hanging open slightly, grunting and groaning as he takes his own fingers and his dick gains friction against Akira’s clothed stomach. Akira thinks he looks beautiful like this; he can’t help but gingerly place a hand under his chin to lift it up.

It’s Akechi that leans in to tenderly kiss him before Akira can do it first, head bobbing gently against Akira’s lips at the same rate which he rises and falls onto his fingers. He whines, cold lips mashing against Akira’s warm ones, and after a few minutes, keens into Akira’s mouth at the sensation of adding a fourth finger. He struggles slightly with this one, brows furrowed and lips stilled as he focuses on slowly inching it into himself, stretching himself apart for Akira with every further push.

They continue to sloppily kiss as Akechi works himself, Akira’s dick throbbing and twitching at the sight. He starts to feel nauseous, almost frail, at the promise of finally getting some kind of relief for the needy ache that’s spread from his groin and settled deep into his bones.

Suddenly, Akechi pulls away, taking in a harsh breath.

He unmounts himself from his hand, releasing his grip on Akira at the same time, and reaches back into his pocket, grabbing the bottle again. Silently, he hands it to Akira.

“I’m ready for you,” he whispers, cheeks flushed, absentmindedly rolling his hips forward to grind his cock against Akira’s jacket. Akira swallows, biting his bottom lip.

A sudden panic sets over him; fuck, he doesn’t want this, _he doesn’t want this_ , not when the way they used to fuck, the way they used to _make love_ sears through his mind in awful contrast with the way Akechi leans over him now, predatory and feral in this darkened alley. He _can’t_ want this.

But he so desperately yearns for the once-familiar sensation of fucking the detective, craving the hot tight heat of him wrapping around his cock. Akechi stares at him, feral eyes and wet lips, and it’s all too _appetizing_.

His conflicting thoughts cut through him, and for the first time this entire night, his rationality seems to triumph.

Akira lies there, unmoving, _calculating,_ holding the bottle, and Akechi silently pleads with him, getting more frustrated the longer neither of them make a move. 

“I don’t want to fuck you,” Akira finally states, despite every part of him aching for it. “Let me take care of you with my fingers,” he adds in a whisper, as a last-minute thought.

He’d be more than willing to finger Akechi while they stroke each other off. It might even be _nice._

Akechi doesn’t say anything in response, and before he knows it, Akira is thrown down and pinned to the ground by his wrists, gasping. He looks up at the detective, who frees him momentarily to snatch the bottle of lube out of his hand with a huff, open it, and carelessly spill some onto his own hand.

“Quit trying to negotiate with me as if you have any choice in the matter,” he finally utters, baring his teeth in a half-smile. Akira tries, half-heartedly, to shuffle away, to move out from underneath the other boy, shoes slipping against the wet ground, but Akechi just grabs his wrists again with his dry hand and presses his weight down harder. “I know you want it anyways, you filthy _liar,”_ he growls.

Akira detests the way his body betrays him, cock twitching. He desperately wills Akechi’s words not to be true, but he knows that despite everything, the detective is absolutely correct.

He continues to struggle, grunting and making quiet pleas of opposition, but Akechi redoubles his grip and they both know Akira isn’t going to win. Akira doesn’t _want_ to win.

Eagerly, he grasps Akira’s dick, making the dark-haired boy release a groan, and begins to stroke it, covering it in the cold, slippery liquid. Akira’s mind goes blank yet again, yearning for the feeling building in his gut amplified by how Akechi gently, _disinterestedly_ , moves his hand up and down his shaft. It feels too good for him to be averse to the situation.

He manages to stutter out something that sounds like “Akechi, fuck,” prompting Akechi to look at him as if he hasn’t eaten in days and Akira’s his next meal, eyes hungrily tearing up and down his body as he continues to work Akira’s cock.

With one final flick of his thumb over the head, he seems to nod to himself, pulling his hand away as well as letting go of Akira’s wrists again. The dark-haired boy struggles to prop himself up on his elbows again.

“Don’t fucking move,” he spits. Akira feels genuinely threatened by the statement, fear doubled by how absolutely _feral_ Akechi looks. 

He won’t move, regardless of Akechi’s outburst. He’s not going to stop him, not now.

It happens in one quick maneuver; Akechi pulls himself up just enough to shuffle backwards, lines Akira’s dick up with his hole, and cautiously, starts to press down, bracing himself with his fingers pressing bruises into both sides of Akira’s hips.

They let out noisy, broken moans in unison as Akira’s hard cock pushes past the ring of muscle and slowly sinks into Akechi, stretching him open around the girth, gradually moving deeper.

“ _Aki-ah, ... Akira,”_ Akechi breathes, mouth fallen open, repeating his name like a prayer. His eyes are screwed shut as he pulls his ass back up slightly, whining at the wet friction of Akira’s cock inside of him and then plunging back down all the way, filling himself to the hilt, tears beginning to shine at the corners of his eyes. He’s grasping at Akira’s thighs with shaking hands, unraveling in little breaths and moans right in front of Akira's eyes.

Every uneven, ragged intake of breath Akechi swallows hits in time with the muscles pulsing around Akira’s cock, and Akira whimpers, absolutely certain that neither of them are going to last long.

One of the hands scrambling around the skin of Akira’s thigh makes its way to the detective’s own leaking, hard dick resting against Akira’s stomach. Akechi throws his head back and begins to slowly stroke himself, gently bucking his hips with every tug.

“ _Goro,”_ Akira mewls, breathless, and he isn’t sure if it’s the way he uses Akechi’s given name or the way he rolls his own hips and angles his first thrust, but the detective cries out, pressing down on him even harder, stroking himself quicker, tears streaming down his face.

Akechi rides him like his life depends on it, all dignity thrown out the window. He grinds his ass down hard, taking Akira as deep as possible, continuously slamming his body against the ground with the amount of force he’s moving at. His hand tugs at his own throbbing cock vehemently, loudly moaning and wailing on every one of Akira’s responding thrusts.

Akira’s brain shuts off and the only thing he truly knows is that it feels _so good_ to be moving in and out of the boy on top of him, Akira’s own moans getting louder and more broken with every passing minute.

His hips begin to stutter and Akechi clenches loosely around him, Akira’s thrusts matching Akechi’s movements _perfectly,_ and the wet hot feeling in his gut begins to coil even tighter and he knows he’s absolutely about to go over the edge.

“I’m gonna cum,” he breathes out, simple and to the point. “I nee _-ah,_ I need to pull out _right now_ , Akechi.”

Akechi’s own movements stutter and he clenches down even tighter, managing to gasp out, “just cum inside of me.”

All it takes is that permission and a few more stammering thrusts before all of Akira’s muscles tense, pulling taut like a rope about to snap, and his orgasm finally rips through him, coursing through his entire body. He cries out, spilling deep inside Akechi’s ass and riding the cascading waves of pleasure.

The detective immediately clenches hard around his cock at the sensation, eyes shutting violently, moaning and thrusting wildly into his hand as he orgasms, neither of them particularly caring about the fact that he’s cumming all over Akira’s stomach and jacket.

He collapses forward, whining, bending at an odd angle to lay himself heavily on top of Akira whilst still keeping Akira’s softening cock in his ass, muscles pulsing and tightening around it.

They breathe heavily together, Akira panting into the detective’s mussed hair, Akechi’s clean hand curling around the collar of Akira’s jacket as they lie there, coming down from their highs.

Akechi clenches his fist, pulling the fabric tight before letting his head rest against Akira’s heaving chest.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Akechi finally mumbles after a few minutes of silence, face pressed into the junction of Akira’s neck and his shoulder. It’s like he’s suddenly come back to life, quickly sitting up and pulling himself off of Akira, wincing at the feeling of going from full to empty; then, wincing at the viscid fluid mixture of semen and lube dripping down the backs of his thighs. He wipes his cum-covered hand on Akira’s jacket, adding to the sticky mess that was already there.

As Akechi moves away, Akira shuffles to pull his boxers back up over his now-soft dick, yearning for the lost feeling of it thrusting in and out of the warm, tight space it had just been in. 

The detective stands up, skinny legs shaking violently, and before Akira knows it, he’s redressing himself, pulling his own boxers back on, dragging his slacks up around his waist, and retrieving and rebuckling his discarded belt. He brushes himself off with the backs of his hands, chest to knees, and his tired glazed eyes glance down softly at Akira as he tries to smooth out his hair.

“You can... You can get up too, you know,” Akechi states, voice hoarse, in a vaguely condescending matter-of-fact way as he straightens his jacket and puts his gloves and scarf back on.

Akira lets out a breath, shimmying his pants all the way back on while he’s still lying down. He inattentively rebuckles the clasp on his own belt as he sits up.

Once he’s on his feet, he looks anywhere _but_ at Akechi. He replaces his own gloves and scarf without a care about how neat he appears to be before remembering the obvious mess on his jacket. Swiftly, he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a tissue and using it to carefully dab away the mess until it’s no longer visible.

He pockets the tissue and feels for his phone, stumbling slightly as he turns to walk in the direction of the train station. Before he leaves, he glances back at Akechi, still standing there. His red eyes are soft, looking at Akira inquisitively, but with a certain sadness lingering in them.

The detective licks his lips. “Uh,” he begins, but then shuts his mouth.

There’s something unspoken, lingering in the air, thick enough that Akira could cut it with a knife.

“Have a good night, Goro,” Akira offers, his smile failing to reach his eyes. Akechi gives him another look that hits like an arrow straight into the bullseye at the center of his heart.

Akira wants to scream.

“Thanks,” he says, swallowing, gaze now pointed toward the ground as he makes a point to fix his scarf again. “You too.”

Akira doesn’t need to look back again to know that Akechi doesn’t move from that spot in the time it takes him to get back onto the main street en route to the station. He passes the rambunctious groups at the nearby bars and food stalls, all of whom are completely oblivious to anything other than their own lives.

He makes it to the train with time to spare, and the entire ride is uneventful, mostly spent watching the bland scenery pass through the dark windows. When he finally gets off the train at Yongen-Jaya, he makes sure to walk slowly, the brisk night air that’s nipping at his ears and nose feels cleansing as he walks back to the cafe.

He quietly unlocks and opens the door to Leblanc, never more grateful to be coming back to an empty house. Making sure it’s shut and locked behind him, he heads inside, carelessly removing his outerwear and shoes before heading straight for the stairs. He internally reminds himself to throw the jacket, at least, in the wash before anyone comes in in the morning. Every stair creaks on his way up, sinking under his weight. 

When he enters the attic, he sighs a breath of relief. He looks to his left, glancing at the full-length mirror he set up only a few days prior. He sees bright pink blown lips. Black curly hair, messy and wild in all directions. He notices that his belt has come unbuckled, loose around his waist. His white short-sleeved undershirt is untucked on one side. Scraped, pink elbows shine brightly at him, and a few pristine light bruises pepper the backs of his arms. Nausea rolls up his body in a tidal wave, and a pain shoots through the front of his head, settling above his temples.

His legs go weak again, and he steps to the side of his room, pressing his back against the wall and slowly slumping to the floor, shaking. The moment he’s completely sitting down, cheek turned to rest against the cold wood, he hears a quiet _ding_ from his cellphone.

He takes in a deep breath and hesitantly pulls the device out of his pocket, heart thumping in his throat. He notices a small crack on the side of his screen, spider-webbing out into the top right corner.

Blinking and swallowing, he reads the text message that’s been displayed, phone brightly lighting up his dark room.

_“Hey. Just wanted to make sure you got home safe.”_

His heart begins to ache, the words prickling deep under his skin. Unlocking his phone with shaking fingers, he considers, only for a moment, blocking Akechi’s phone number. Getting a new number himself. Moving away to another town far from here.

Before he can type out a response, another text shows up, 

“ _Do you want to meet up again somewhere next Saturday? Maybe at the billiards lounge after you get off work?"_

A wave of despair washes over him.

He types a message, and then deletes it. Types another, deletes again. Finally, he seems to settle on,

“ _of course.”_

His thumb hovers over the send button, seeming to subconsciously drift towards the backspace. After a few moments, he takes in a shaky breath and makes the unwarranted decision to add to his message.

_“see you then.”_

**Author's Note:**

> big thanks to my wonderful, patient girlfriend for beta-reading and editing this monstrosity, wouldn't have finished it without you spurring me on babe
> 
> title from we know where you sleep by the paper chase, the song which inspired this entire fic. go give it a listen.


End file.
